


Yet, If He Said He Loved Me

by musegnome, Pyracantha



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1970s, Angry Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has a mustache, Explicit Sexual Content, Fashion Changes - GO Events, Flashbacks, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's a beautiful day for some bellbottoms, M/M, POV Alternating, Sam Eliot 'Stache, Tender Sex, title from a Jesus Christ Superstar Song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26367751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musegnome/pseuds/musegnome, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/pseuds/Pyracantha
Summary: In this new world where the sword of Damocles of the apocalypse has clanged down with all the strength of a plastic bread knife, Crowley & Aziraphale are carefully exploring their new normal. Centuries of buried love & hurt will always leave landmines, including some you planted yourself.A 1970s theme art gala in 2020 with Anthema & Newt is a lovely idea that throws our angel & demon back into memories of a night at the bookshop they haven’t spoken about in 48 years.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 44
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> A PyraMuse collaboration for the GO-Events Server’s POV Pairs event.
> 
> Pyracantha is writing Crowley, and Musegnome is writing Aziraphale. We’ve had so much fun writing this together, and we hope you enjoy!

**_Modern Day_ **

Crowley is sitting in his flat when he gets a text. “Free for a call?” He smiles. It’s from Anathema.

He hadn’t planned on staying in touch with anyone from that day on the hot tarmac. He still sometimes wakes with the taste of smoke and metal in his mouth, gasping for air he doesn’t need. He has surprised himself with this friendship. Anathema has some of his favourite human traits: lots of questions and so much mischief. Plus she never takes his shit, and that’s rather refreshing.

He texts back: “For you never, but I know you’ll call anyway. ;)”

When she calls she’s still laughing.

“OK” she says. “Let me preface this by saying it will be FUN.”

He groans dramatically, immediately on guard for whatever scheme she’s got up her voluminous witchy sleeves. He opens his mouth to speak but she handily cuts him off.

“Come on, Crowley. Just hear me out!” He can tell she’s actually excited, so he lets her continue without his normal asides.

“So you know my mom is kind of a big deal in California art collecting?”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned it a few times.”

“Well, she got a catalog of an event coming up in London at the Frith Street Gallery. It’s a retrospective of important 70s artists, and I’d really really like to come up and go to the opening. But it’s invite only. They mentioned that they were working with other business owners in the area. So I thought maybe, Aziraphale being a business owner in the area...?” She leaves the words hanging.

“Ah! So you need me to find out if the angel is invited, and maybe change the tickets to your name?” he finishes for her.

“Oh, well yes, but we’d hoped you would come with us!”

“OK, double-date kind of thing?” he asks warily.

“Yes! Exactly! And it will be super posh and everything, but the event has some, er, special conditions. So I know you are going to love it, but just keep an open mind.”

He cuts in with a huff, “What, are they nudists or something? This is an awful lot of prefacing, get to the point, Nat.” He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. Crowley is glad she’s not there to see the fondness ruining the effect of his exasperated face.

“OK, so, it’s a gallery show, a retrospective like I said…” she pauses, hears his exasperated huff, and continues breathlessly, “it’s a costume party and you have to dress up to attend.” She says the last bit as if it’s all one word. Trying to get it out fast so she doesn’t second guess herself for asking in the first place.

Crowley groans again, a bit performatively. He actually liked the clothes and makeup during that era. It was a time he felt free in his sartorial expression. Let it all “hang out” as it were. It was an interesting decade. He thinks it would be fun. Not that he’d ever let on to Anathema, though he has a sneaky feeling that she already knows.

“Nat, a costume party?! A _1970s_ costume party!? You know Aziraphale has to be bribed to leave that bowtie at home at the best of times. It’ll be WORK to get him to play along.” He sighs, thinking of the conversation he’s going to have to have.

“Well, that’s why I asked YOU. He’ll do anything if _you_ ask him.” He can hear the emphasis on that ‘you’.

He also knows this, but hearing her say it gives him a little thrill, and he smiles.

“OK, I’ll see what I can do. No guarantees!” But he’s smiling still, and she can hear it in his voice.

“Oh Crowley, really?! I can’t thank you enough! It’s going to be so fun, I can’t wait!”

She rings off, and he thinks about how to present the idea to Aziraphale. He would probably have said yes if Anathema had asked him. The angel does like a party, and a high-end gallery with art he can snark about is as tempting as the gourmet snacks provided.

With the smile still on his face he calls the bookshop.

*~*~*~*

The old rotary phone rings in the bookshop’s back room, and Aziraphale knows exactly who it will be before he answers. It’s no great mystery, really; Crowley is the only one who has had the number for this particular telephone since Aziraphale had it installed.

He hasn’t been expecting much of any social interaction this evening, and so he’s already consumed two tumblers of scotch and three of the Wodehouse stories in _My Man Jeeves,_ all of which have put him in quite good spirits. He picks up the receiver. “Hello, darling!” he says cheerfully.

Aziraphale luxuriates in this casual greeting. He loves being able to speak with Crowley openly, easily, since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, without having to scramble for excuses.

“Hello, angel.” Aziraphale can hear Crowley’s affection, which makes him glow far more warmly than the scotch – but he can also hear the barest whisper of apprehension underneath.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” He tries not to sound suspicious.

“I just got off the phone with Book Girl.” Crowley really only calls her Book Girl to make Aziraphale huff, and it works marvelously.

“She, ah… she has a favour she’d like to ask us.”

Aziraphale waits.

“She needs an in to an invite-only party at that art gallery you found last month.”

“Oh!” He’s relieved at the simplicity of the request, and pleased. He did like the array of work they had at the Frith, paintings and sculpture and textiles, and he’d purchased a membership along with a few small watercolor pieces that he would make space to hang in the shop. Eventually.

He thinks he’s recently received an envelope from the gallery in the post, actually, and he rises to sort through his mail, only half-listening as Crowley natters on about Anathema and the art.

The envelope is halfway through the stack. Aziraphale slits it open and studies its contents with interest. Abstract art in bright psychedelic colors, and on the other side an invitation to a members-only party for the exhibition’s opening.

“The 1970s retrospective, you said?” he interrupts Crowley, who makes an inarticulate noise of confirmation. “I’ve got the invitation right here. Of course Miss Device and her young man are welcome to attend. I’ll change it to her name right now.” He brushes his fingers across the typeface and _A.Z. Fell_ transforms to _Anathema Device._

There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line, and then Crowley says, a bit nervously, “Well, angel, thanks, but… I, ah, rather thought we might go with them?”

Aziraphale considers. The 1970s had… not been his favourite decade, but he couldn’t deny the vibrancy of the culture, and he’s fond of the feisty young woman who has unexpectedly managed to forge a path through Crowley’s prickles. And it’s so rare for Crowley to make requests like this one. Usually it’s Aziraphale asking his lover for favours, and so when the tables are turned he finds it hard to deny Crowley anything - especially after millennia spent turning him away.

“I don’t see why not.” He touches the card again and the name on the invitation changes back to his own pseudonym, but now with a _+3_ instead of a _+1._

Crowley’s delight is palpable through the telephone. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Why would Crowley think he wouldn’t want to attend a gallery reception? He enjoys taking in the humans’ pleasure in art. And the food and drinks are generally quite good.

“Ha!” Crowley crows. “I can’t wait to hear how Nat and Newt will get along wearing their seventies clothes on the Tube.”

A small shock courses through him. “Seventies clothes?”

“Ye-es.” Crowley suddenly sounds a bit uncertain. “Anathema said it was a costume party.”

Aziraphale snatches up the invitation and rereads the text, belatedly lighting on the instructions to _“Dress in your 1970s best!”_

“But must we wear costumes?” he protests. “My dear, you know fashion isn’t my strong suit. And the last few decades have left me little to work with as it is! All that fast fashion and polyester.” He runs his fingers along the worn velvet of his waistcoat.

“Angel, I seem to remember quite a lot of ‘fashion’ on display in 1793,” Crowley counters wryly.

Aziraphale recalls the comfort of the heavy brocade and the slide of silk stockings along his legs. “Well – that was quite different, Crowley! It certainly wasn’t _fast_ fashion. Everything was hand tailored. And oh! The satin was so lovely.” He sighs. “I still miss those shoes.”

“They were quite pretty,” Crowley agrees. “Went well with the lace cravat.” They both pause for a moment of nostalgia. Tinged with a healthy dash of lust, at least on Aziraphale’s part.

Crowley says brightly, “So, see? I know you can come up with something good. The 1970s were a bit over the top—”

He breaks off, and Aziraphale stiffens. The Seventies had indeed been over the top, in more ways than one, and they both know it.

Crowley clears his throat. “It’ll be fun, angel,” he says cautiously. “Nat says it’s a double date. And you never know – they might have some pictures of that Judy Chicago piece you love.”

Aziraphale allows him to change the subject, and obligingly begins an impromptu (but sincere) lecture on the under-recognition of women artists throughout history. But as he rambles, his mind is churning underneath, dragging old memories from the dark corners and crannies where he’d stuffed them away, spilling them out.

He lets himself trail off. He bites his lip against words he shouldn’t say, but they slip out anyway.

“Will you wear your white coat, do you think?”

The silence that follows is painfully heavy.

Finally Crowley’s voice comes through the receiver, thick and careful. “Nah. Last time I wore it, it got stained. And… I can’t always get the stains out, angel.”

After an aching moment, Crowley goes on with forced lightness. “But I’ve got a lot of other options. Tell me you’ll dress up, too?”

Aziraphale can sense the effort it’s taking for Crowley to keep his words even, and without thinking he hurries to agree. He can go faster, he can meet Crowley; together they can rush past this new reminder of old pain.

“Yes, _fine,_ Crowley, I’ll see what I can come up with.” He hopes the artificial reluctance in his agreement will get them back to their usual bickering.

“Sounds good. Anathema and Newt’ll meet us there. I’ll pick you up, angel? If we shoot for seven o’clock we should get there right as the pre-show nibbles arrive.”

He's relieved at the normalcy of Crowley's words. “That sounds lovely, my dear. I’ll see you then.”

\-----

“Will you wear your white coat, do you think?”

It rings like a bell through him. He can still remember how the leather of the coat was like a second skin, warm and soft. He can remember how it felt when Aziraphale had grabbed the front to manhandle him onto the table. The black ink spiraled out in an arc almost like a wing.

Crowley has gone still. The silence feels thick and heavy, like any word he utters would drop into it and hang there, suspended. His brain tries to find something light to break it. Anything at all. _“Just one word at a time,”_ he thinks, _“like stair steps.”_ Thank someone he manages to keep his voice steady.

“Nah. Last time I wore it, it got stained. And… I can’t always get the stains out, angel.”

His eyes well up at the picture in his head and he works to push the memory down, breathing through his nose and trying for lightness.

“But I’ve got a lot of other options. Tell me you’ll dress up, too?” He’s rewarded with the angel skipping past his awkwardness.

“Yes, _fine,_ Crowley, I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“I’ll pick you up, Angel. If we shoot for seven o'clock we should get there right as the pre-show nibbles arrive.” The silence sticks in this throat as he waits to hear the reply.

Finally he hears a strained, “That sounds lovely, my dear. I’ll see you then.” And Aziraphale rings off hurriedly.

Crowley sits holding the phone to his chest. It’s still a physical ache to think about it. It was one of the lowest points of their... friendship, arrangement, whatever this is now. And it IS something now. Something so precious, and he worries the fragile bubble they’ve created might disappear.

Because it’s obvious that the angel hasn’t forgotten a thing.

*~*~*~*

Aziraphale hangs up quickly and buries his face in his hands. How on Earth had he let Crowley’s simple request to attend a party become so fraught with emotion?

He suddenly wishes that he could see Crowley, that they could have been together in the same place for this whole conversation.

They’ve been dancing around the idea of living together for a while now: delicate hints over dinner, drunken offers after a bottle or four of wine in the bookshop’s back room. But when all’s said and done it comes back to Aziraphale, as it always has, to his slow and stumbling pace. He still can’t stop looking over his shoulder for Heaven’s disapproving wrath. And more than that - he can’t bear to inflict himself and his clutter on Crowley’s sleek, stylish flat. On his sleek, stylish life. And he’s thankful Crowley has been willing to be the one who comes out of his comfort zone to sit in Aziraphale’s dusty shop among the piles of books, the art stacked in the corners, the trinkets that cover every shelf - but he knows Crowley must be relieved to escape back to the clean, open minimalism of his own home.

But… he _has_ just inflicted his clutter on Crowley, hasn’t he? Just now it’s come tumbling past his lips, down the telephone line, scattering darkly over this precious new thing they’ve built between them.

It has taken Aziraphale a while after the Apocalypse hadn’t happened to work up to their current relationship, whatever it is – the open affection, the adoration. The sex. No more skulking. He was a small creature, hiding, afraid of the shadows cast down from Heaven above, and Crowley has been coaxing him out into the sun.

But sometimes the shadows aren’t cast by Heaven at all, and sometimes they still pass overhead, and sometimes he still lashes out in fear.

He remembers Crowley’s red silk under smoky lights, remembers the white leather coat flying as he’d stormed across the street to the bookshop. Aziraphale’s tumbler of scotch is full again when he blindly reaches for it, and he takes a long drink.

Crowley had been beautiful in the 1970s – beautiful in all the decades, all the millennia, but the Seventies had suited him particularly well. It’s such a small thing he’s asking now, to go to a party and to wear the clothes from those years, and this is something Aziraphale will do for him.

Besides, Heaven's not commenting on his wardrobe these days.

He scrubs wearily at his face as he rises to search through his bookshelves, where he’s certain an old stack of men’s fashion magazines has suddenly appeared.

\-----

Crowley texts Anathema a thumbs up emoji, and watches as she ‘likes’ it and replies with the excited emoji face. He smiles quietly to himself but the smile fades and he sighs.

His mind lights on a memory: Aziraphale’s hair lit up with gleaming stars from a mirror ball, wreathed in smoke that changes colour with the lights. He’s beautiful, and Crowley wants to kiss the resentful look off his face. The memory sours as it carries on. It rolls over and over in his mind like a worry stone.

He tries to put it out of his head as he gets on with his night. Giving the plants a mist and an extra glower at the _Calathea marantaceae_ for being wilty.

He continues his ramble about the flat. It seems so barren tonight, not like the bookshop’s coziness. He slides his fingertips along a shelf in the living room and touches the small collection of books there. He smiles to himself as he thinks of Aziraphale, so nervous when he brought them, not wanting to overstep. Crowley sighs as he looks around and wishes the angel _would_ overstep. Or at least step at all.

They’ve almost talked about merging houses in the most sideways, round-about way. Aziraphale has made little hints here and there and Crowley makes sure that his agreement with these hints is never hesitant. It’s always a bit too enthusiastic, if he’s honest. His flat is lonely and that’s his secret.

He knows the angel thinks he’s chic and fashionable, but really all he longs for is soft sofas, tartan throws that get tucked up under his chin when he’s napping, and the angel puttering around doing whatever it is he does all day.

By now he has thought himself in circles and nothing holds his attention for long. His mind won’t quit and he’s exhausted. He finally gives it up for lost and decides to go to bed. Maybe tomorrow he can shake off the prickle of unease that has settled in his bones.

*~*~*~*~*

**_Modern Day - Two Weeks Later_ **

Aziraphale stares at himself in the long mirror. Twists his body this way and that, squints at his clothes from different angles, frowns. Everything is wrong.

It all fits too closely, for starters. He is fine, mostly, with his own softness, but his usual clothing has had decades in which to mold to his form. Centuries, even, for some pieces. This new outfit clings from his neck to his knees, and the full-body stimulation is disconcerting. And the patterns are too bold. The shoes too soft. It’s all so vehemently _unfamiliar_ that he can only come to one conclusion:

There is no possible way he can walk out of here in this getup.

He raises his fingers, ready to snap himself back into the comfort of his standard attire, when his phone begins blaring bebop. The blasted mobile Crowley insisted he have, that Crowley had set up for him, and there is Crowley calling him now. He answers the call with an uncertain touch to the screen.

“Angel. Are you getting ready?”

“Yes?” he says, still unsure about the whole affair.

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Not yet. I still don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

“Because Nat talked _me_ into it. You’ll like it, angel. You like art, you like fancy cocktails. And fondue. It won’t be a proper 1970s party without fondue.”

Sounds of rustling and rummaging come through the line, and Crowley makes a series of exasperated noises. Aziraphale frowns. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Looking for the box. The one that has the rest of my _real_ clothes.” Aziraphale blinks in surprise. He hadn’t been aware Crowley kept any real clothes.

 _“Aha!_ Found it!” Crowley exclaims triumphantly. “The shirt’s the last bit. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Ciao, angel.” The phone goes silent.

Aziraphale tugs at his sweater guiltily. Wasn’t that something? – for Crowley to wear the actual clothing and Aziraphale to have something miracled.

He considers for a moment, then goes to his old wardrobe and opens the door. Perhaps it’s an occasion that warrants some rummaging of his own. He pushes aside the cream coat and the hanger with his worn waistcoat, looking for a particular small box. Finally he finds it, fallen to the back of the wardrobe and wedged behind his second best trousers.

The tartan ascot inside is a bit wrinkled, but it takes just a flick of fingers to smooth it out. Quite a long time goes by as he looks at it, purses his lips and thinks. Remembers.

There’s a pounding at the bookshop door, followed by the _snick_ of the lock and a creak of hinges.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls, the faintest hint of irritation in his voice. “I’m here! Let’s get a move on.”

He hears the familiar step on the stairs and hastily ties the ascot around his neck. When he flings open his bedroom door he almost hits Crowley, who is reaching for the knob. A reprimand rises in his throat and dies in his mouth as he takes in the sight.

In greys and blacks as always, Crowley is dazzling. His long legs look astounding in tight grey metallic trousers and black chelsea boots; a black silk shirt shot through with silver thread – the one he must have been looking for, and blessed if it hadn’t been worth the search – is open almost to his waist. A long red scarf around his lovely throat is his only pop of color. Aside from his hair, of course, which he’d grown feathered, just to his shoulders, with a wing flopped artistically over his right eye. His makeup is gorgeous: dark eyeliner Aziraphale can see even through the sunglasses, and silver glitter against his sculpted cheekbones.

He’s breathtaking. Literally stunning; Aziraphale rocks back on his heels. He almost flees then, back to his room – he feels a proper frump.

But Crowley looks stunned himself, mouth open in astonishment. “Angel,” he whispers. He makes inarticulate noises and small shocked gestures in Aziraphale’s general direction.

For once Aziraphale can’t interpret Crowley’s wordless language and so he fidgets, wringing his hands. “Um. Do you like it?”

Crowley snaps out of his daze. “Angel, you’re beautiful. It’s lovely. You look…” Crowley trails off and moves closer, but does not touch.

Aziraphale can feel his face getting warm. To cover his self-consciousness, he raises a brow and gives Crowley another open once-over. “And you look magnificent, as always.” It’s his turn to step forward, and he doesn’t resist the temptation to slip a hand past the warm silk and rest it on Crowley’s chest.

Any salaciousness he may have intended fades beneath a wave of love for his beautiful demon. It washes over him, gentle but inexorable, and he can feel it surging from Crowley as well. They breathe together and simply take each other in, they admire, they adore.

Aziraphale is suddenly overwhelmed by the affection. He's off-kilter in his strange new clothes and anxious about the evening ahead; his heart is a jumble of emotions and his thoughts chase each other round and round. He must get everything back in order.

He takes a deep breath and looks up shyly to Crowley’s face. His brow creases a bit. Crowley has taken such care, but there’s something missing. There’s a flash of memory, of a rasp against his mouth, and before Aziraphale thinks he says, “My dear, I think you’ve forgotten something.”

\-----

“Angel! Are you getting ready?” Crowley has the phone to his ear, but he suspects Aziraphale can hear him pacing around and flinging open cupboards and drawers, obviously in search of something particular.

“Yes?” Aziraphale sounds hesitant, like he’d really like nothing more than to hang up and get himself a proper cuppa and _Persuasion_ and settle into his armchair for the night.

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Crowley instantly stops his search, feeling worry itching behind his eyes.

Aziraphale sighs. “Not yet. I still don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

“Because Nat talked _me_ into it. You’ll like it, angel. You like art, you like fancy cocktails. And fondue. It won’t be a proper 1970s party without fondue.” If the party didn’t have fondue before, well they have it now.

Crowley rolls his eyes and attacks the boxes again, looking for a very particular shirt. He's already done his makeup for tonight, and the highlights on his face put any aspiring beauty YouTuber to shame. He has been growing his hair out the past few months, but for tonight he’s crafted the most feathery wing of hair, flopped artistically over his right eye.

“Hm. Ugh. Argh.“ Crowley is muttering his usual random noises that don’t pass for words but Aziraphale always knows what he means.

“Whatever are you doing?” Aziraphale demands.

“Looking for the box. The one that has the rest of my _real_ clothes.”

His hand closes around the box he’s looking for. “ _Aha!_ Found it!” Crowley exclaims triumphantly. “The shirt’s the last bit. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Ciao, angel.” He hangs up before Aziraphale can voice any other objection.

He stands in front of the mirror and gives himself an appraising look. The hair and eyeliner give his eyes even more focus than usual, even though they’ll be hidden behind his sunglasses, and the holo glitter on his cheek bones highlights their sharp angles. His grey metallic trousers look painted on. The black chelsea boots make his legs look fantastic. His shirt is black silk with silver thread woven through. It shimmers with every movement. Of course it’s unbuttoned to the waist and he has a red scarf wrapped around his throat. It’s ridiculously long and the ends hang down behind him. It’s a bit like armour tonight. These clothes are real, not something he pulled out of the aether to wear. They are as perfect as the day he bought them, and he’s still delighted by them.

He shakes himself out of his reverie and heads to the Bentley to pick up Aziraphale.

\---

Crowley pulls up to the bookshop, having only traumatised a few pedestrians, and hops out of the car. He’s eager to see what the angel has chosen to wear. He steps through the door and the bell jingles.

“Aziraphale! I’m here! Let’s get a move on…” Crowley hurries up the stairs and is almost hit by the bedroom door when it swings open. His angel smiles shyly and hesitantly steps towards him.

Whatever he had imagined on the way over, it’s nothing compared to the reality of seeing Aziraphale’s costume. He’s rendered almost speechless.

“Angel.” He whispers it, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face.

He’s wearing a sleeveless, cream coloured sweater over a pale blue button-down shirt. He’s actually wearing bellbottom trousers, tartan ones (of course), cut close. With dark brown loafers. His blond curls have been tamed but he’s grown a beard, close trimmed just enough to make his lips and chin look so soft.

His angel looks like the model of a 70s modern professor. Leave it to him to still project an air of bookishness no matter how fashionable he looks. He has something knotted around his neck, but Crowley’s too gone on the beard to look very closely.

Crowley’s been struck speechless, so he just makes a few affirmative noises while making soft gestures towards Aziraphale’s face and clothes. But now Aziraphale is looking concerned and that will not do, so Crowley hurries to reassure him.

“Angel it’s, you’re beautiful. It’s lovely. You look…” he trails off. Standing close but not touching.

Aziraphale is turning pink but he raises an eyebrow to the demon. “And you look magnificent, as always.” He has reached out a gentle hand to Crowley’s chest.

They take a minute to just look. Then a little crease appears between the angel’s eyebrows. He reaches up his hand to Crowley’s cheek and says, “My dear, I think you’ve forgotten something.”

Crowley looks down at his outfit and makes sure everything is in place. He looks at the angel, confused. “What do you mean? I think I’m all together now.”

Aziraphale reaches up his hand to Crowley’s cheek and says, “Darling, where is your mustache?”

Crowley throws back his head and laughs, “Yes! I forgot you did see it at least once.” His eyes dim a bit at the memory but he shakes his head and the mustache appears as red and luxuriant as he had kept it in 1972. The memory intrudes again but he forcefully moves his mind to the present.

"Twice," Aziraphale reminds him gently.

Crowley reaches for him. When their mouths meet, the rasp of the angel’s beard is delightful. Just as soft as Crowley thought it would be. He shudders and wonders if it might be all right to be even later to the party. He thinks of Anathema chiding them and reluctantly pulls away.

They are both breathing heavily. Crowley can only smile helplessly in the face of Aziraphale’s overwhelming love blooming over them both. He’s wrapped in joy but suddenly he stills, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s neck. On the ascot tied there.

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~***

**_1972_ **

Aziraphale hums, pleased with himself, as he tucks the tickets into an envelope. For half a decade he’s been flailing about, desperately trying to think of an excuse to reach out to Crowley. Their former lunches and walks in the park don’t seem like sufficient efforts. And besides, he hasn’t heard from Crowley since the gift of holy water and his own… insistence on speed limits.

He’d wrestled with his feelings after their last meeting in 1967. The terror over the enormity of what he’d given Crowley. The guilt over his most recent rejection of what the demon has been offering for millennia. It had never been offered as openly as this, though. He had wanted so very badly to take it, to ride with Crowley anywhere they wanted to go. Has done for at least twenty-six years; longer, much longer, if he was honest with himself.

But he’d been afraid – and now, he is angry. Angry that Crowley hadn’t seen how much it had taken for him to leave the door open then, after thousands of years of slamming it shut, that he’d simply _fucked off_ back to whatever demonic things he was doing. Not a call, not a word.

He bites it all back, stuffs it in its box and shelves it away.

He ties his ascot around his neck. It’s adventurous, that ascot, a departure from his norm, and only five years old! Crowley can hardly complain about his lagging in trends. He feels it looks quite smart. As smart as it had when he'd worn it for Crowley last.

Aziraphale pulls on his coat and slips the envelope in his pocket. Now that it’s opening in the West End, he’s secured tickets to _Jesus Christ Superstar,_ the American musical causing so much fuss. It’s enough of a special event that he thinks Crowley might be coaxed to accompany him, and when the reports are due to their respective home offices they can simply say they were investigating the cause of the religious controversy.

And tonight is the perfect night to make an approach. He can sense Crowley’s occult aura only a few blocks away.

It’s a lovely evening for a stroll. He makes his leisurely way through Soho, following Crowley’s traces like yarn through a maze, but when he arrives at a little door in a back alley he stops short. He can hear the thumping of music from the other side. He warily opens the door.

Billows of sound and smoke greet him, and he coughs as he walks down stairs to a basement club. He smells the acrid tang of tobacco, the burnt-sugar-rope scent of cannabis. He can hardly think for the noise. A mirrored silver sphere is suspended from the ceiling and twirls slowly, spinning spots of light across the dance floor. Bodies in bright clothes press close, and Aziraphale realises how out of place he is in his pastels; a quick miracle assures he won’t be noticed – except, he hopes, by Crowley. It’s difficult to sense him in the crowd.

That is, until Aziraphale pushes himself as politely as possible through the oblivious dancers and finally reaches the bank of tables at the back of the club.

And there is Crowley in the corner, under the dim light, with a group of men. He looks like temptation incarnate in tight black trousers that cup the curve of his arse, and a perfectly draped rust-red silk shirt that Aziraphale thinks would be very smooth and soft to the touch.

He’s bent over a shirtless young blond man who is stretched out on a table. He appears to be inhaling a line of white powder from the young man’s flat stomach as the man giggles and squirms.

Crowley throws back his head and sniffs deeply, and the blond man reaches up, laughing, to tangle fingers in Crowley’s red hair and pull him down for a kiss. When Crowley straightens, he turns to look straight at Aziraphale, with no expression on his face. He wipes the last of the cocaine from his mustache with the back of his hand.

He murmurs something to his companions before abruptly striding Aziraphale’s way. Shoving rudely through the crush of bodies, he leans in to shout over the music. “Need something, angel?”

“Ah – well—” Aziraphale stammers. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you at work.”

Crowley shrugs. “Mixing business and pleasure tonight, as it turns out.” He moves past Aziraphale and bullies his way toward the bar. Aziraphale follows in his wake.

“I’ve, um, got tickets. To that musical. The one that all the churches are worked up over,” he offers hesitantly. “Thought we might go see what the fuss is all about.”

“Sure,” Crowley says, voice flat with studied indifference. “I might pop round in the next day or two. If things don’t get too busy. With work.”

He waves at the bartender. “Oi! Two Tequila Sunrises. And a Slow Comfortable Screw for my friend here.” He turns coolly to Aziraphale. “Emphasis on Slow. And Comfortable.”

The bartender looks uneasily back and forth between them; Aziraphale’s mouth tightens, and he nods. He stands in awkward silence with Crowley as their drinks are mixed.

Crowley slides some money across the counter and whisks his two colourful glasses from the bar as soon as they’re set down. “Cheers, angel.” He vanishes back into the crush of humans.

Aziraphale lifts his drink just enough to slip a ten-pound note underneath for the bartender, who hasn’t deserved to be in the middle of this – this – whatever it was. He leaves it sitting on the bar as he makes his way out.

Back at the bookshop, he locks the door and sits down heavily at his desk. He squeezes his eyes closed, hard, trying to shut out his surge of emotion. When he opens them again, he takes the envelope with the tickets from his coat pocket and lays it carefully on the desk. He stares at it for a long minute and pulls himself tightly together.

He hopes Crowley will come by soon. The tickets are for a performance just three days away.

Aziraphale pushes himself back from the desk and walks up the stairs to his flat. He can be calm about this. There is absolutely no need to get worked up.

He opens the door of his wardrobe and fishes out the little box for his ascot. His hands tremble as he removes the lid.

Suddenly, savagely, he yanks the knot free and rips the ascot from his neck. He stuffs it in its box and pushes the thing far to the back of his wardrobe.

He doesn’t take it out again for another forty-eight years.

\-----

Crowley is having a banner night. He’s got a hum in his head from the cocaine, but there is so much weed in the air it’s taken the sparkling edge off. He’s in a slow golden haze where everything looks pleasantly blurry, and he’s drifting.

The music is so loud he can’t hear it as much as feel it, vibrating up through the floorboards of this tiny club in Soho. He’s in a back corner booth with some friends, if “friends” stands for unbelievably hot men who are happy to hang out and do a lot of blow, as long as it’s his. And they are stunning: beautiful hard bodies in the briefest of what could be considered clothes. Booty shorts and platform boots, bellbottoms so tight you can see every prick in the place.

He’s here like everyone else, wearing his signature black trousers so tight they really do look painted on, and so low he’d be in real trouble if anyone did look hot enough to tempt him. But no, that’s his job, isn’t it?

He leans back in the booth, trying his best to keep his head in the conversation. He’s meant to be tempting an MP’s son to scandal, but the lad has been outpacing him for the last several hours. Crowley can’t see how this kid isn’t already firmly in Hell’s books for the astonishing amount of coke that’s disappeared up his nose just _tonight._ A well-placed photographer outside later will do all that’s needed, but he should be paying at least a little attention.

He jerks as he feels a hand on his chest, sliding inside his shirt. It’s open to the waist but he hasn’t been paying attention, and now, oh, he’s quite distracted. A dark-haired young man with flashing eyes is turning towards him, continuing to slide his hand farther in and down towards Crowley’s waist.

He smiles lazily. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He keeps petting down Crowley’s side, his palm catching on the waistband of his trousers. “I’m John.”

Crowley’s skin is buzzing; everywhere John touches he lights up. It’s very distracting.

He shakes himself a bit and answers. “Crowley. And yes, I think I’d remember.”

It’s the last thing either of them say for a while. When he ends up with John in a tiny bathroom, John’s mouth on him, it’s like he’s underwater as the combination of the bass, the drugs, and the orgasm overwhelm him. Crowley has had his share of sex with humans over the millennia and this is filed firmly under the ‘feels good, might as well’ column. Like the drugs, it’s part of the scene, and right now he’s in the undertow.

When they make it back to the group there’s a beautiful shirtless blond laid out on the top of the table, and the MP’s son, what's his fucking name?, is cutting lines of coke on his flat stomach with an actual razor.

“It tickles!” The kid is squirming around and gasping with little giggles.

“Hold still, man! We all get to do a line.”

Crowley has a feeling Mr. Destined for Hell would actually not give a shit if he accidentally slashed the kid, but the demon steps up with the rest of them and snorts his line. As he goes to stand the blond grabs him and kisses him sloppily.

When he stands, the coke hits, and it’s a little like brain freeze for a second as he’s hit with a shiver of angelic energy at the exact same time. It makes butterflies start up in his stomach and he forces himself to look up at Aziraphale with what he hopes is no expression on his face. He swipes his mustache with the back of his hand as he makes his way towards the angel.

He pushes through the crush on the dance floor to make his way to Aziraphale’s side.

The angel looks almost fragile under the smoky lights, his pastel and cream reflecting the light back. If he hadn’t felt the familiar angelic spark Crowley might have thought he was just a dream, conjured here by the beat of his heart.

He’s missing his bowtie. As many times as Crowley has teased him about his old-fashioned tie, he’s caught by its absence. It draws his attention to Aziraphale’s neck and it makes his breath catch. How he’d love to kiss it, sliding his mouth from the angel’s jaw down to the perfect hollow of his throat. Sliding the ascot off and continuing down his chest. Satan, he needs to get himself under control. He takes a deep breath and wills his rebellious thoughts out of his mind.

“Need something, angel?” he shouts over the music. He tries to keep his pulse down to a normal rate, sure that Aziraphale can hear the litany of heartbreak trying to hammer its way out of his chest.

“Ah – well—” Aziraphale stammers. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you at work.”

Crowley shrugs, trying his best to appear unaffected. “Mixing business and pleasure tonight, as it turns out.” He moves past Aziraphale and makes his way to the bar. He can feel the angel’s eyes boring into his back as he follows behind.

“I’ve, um, got tickets. To that musical. The one that all the churches are worked up over,” Aziraphale offers hesitantly. “Thought we might go see what the fuss is all about.”

For a moment hope flares, and he wants nothing more than to turn and smile and say, “Sure, Angel.” Anger follows closely behind, and the appeal of burning the entire place down until it is nothing but ash seems equally as valid. Crowley struggles there, pinned in between, to compress himself into an acceptable reaction. Finally settles on null.

“Sure,” Crowley says, voice flat, straining towards indifference. “I might pop round in the next day or two. If things don’t get too busy. With work.”

He waves at the bartender. Suddenly the anger flares out bright. “Oi! Two Tequila Sunrises. And a Slow Comfortable Screw for my friend here.” He turns coolly to Aziraphale. “Emphasis on the Slow. And Comfortable.”

He almost immediately regrets them: the words, not the anger. How dare Aziraphale come in here trying to cozy up to him tonight? Of all nights. He would show up when Crowley is high, working, and recently fucked. So now he can stew in the anger and the guilt. Two for one really. He’s winding himself into a right strop, so he tries to stuff the anger back down enough to get back to his earlier nonchalance.

Crowley slips some money across the counter and whisks his two colourful glasses from the bar as soon as they are set down. “Cheers, angel.” He quickly turns his back on Aziraphale and returns to his table, now free of shirtless young men. He hands a drink to John as he slides back into the booth and then swallows his in one go.

He studiously avoids looking at the pale hair dancing with lights as it makes its way through the crowd and then up the stairs and out of view.

*~*~*~*~*

**_1972 - Two Weeks Later_ **

Aziraphale walks beneath the streetlights along the dark avenue. He looks straight ahead, trying to ignore the fact that the footsteps at his side are the wrong weight, the wrong cadence.

Richard is a nice enough young man. He’s been visiting the bookshop regularly for several months now; he’d originally come looking for a first edition of T. S. Eliot, but in spite of Aziraphale’s refusal to sell him one Richard keeps returning, and Aziraphale suspects it isn’t just the book collection that has captured his interest.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have gently sent the human on his way, flattered but uninterested. But Crowley’s absence is an ache and Aziraphale is bitterly lonely.

He tries very hard not to think about Richard’s reddish hair.

Richard had leaned on the table next to the till, as was his wont, chattering on about books and films. Aziraphale had been cataloging new books, absently listening and making affirmative noises in what seemed like appropriate places until he heard the word _Superstar_ and snapped to attention.

The human was speaking about the musical, of course, and lamenting the fact that there were no seats to be had for the next several weeks. Aziraphale thought of the pair of tickets still in the envelope on his desk. They were for a performance ten days past… but it would be the work of a thought to change the date.

Aziraphale had hesitated, holding his breath as he heard his heart crack like porcelain.

And then with an exhale he’d smiled, and told Richard he happened to have an extra ticket for a showing tomorrow evening, and asked: would he like to accompany him?

Richard would.

Aziraphale determinedly puts no thought into how he will dress for the outing. He wears the comforting, comfortable clothes he has always worn: loose trousers, threadbare velvet waistcoat, cream-coloured coat over all. A thought flickers through him, of a small box in the back of his wardrobe – but he slaps it away, tucks the thought into the bigger boxes hidden in the furthest recesses of his mind. Instead he reaches for a bowtie, one of many, any of them will do; it’s the work of rote memory to tie the knot, and he does not look into the mirror as he leaves.

Now, as they walk back to the bookshop after the performance, Aziraphale chats amiably with Richard about this singer, that costume, those lyrics. He had enjoyed the musical – although he would have liked it better with Crowley, he thinks. But Richard is pleasant enough company. And if Aziraphale has to judge by Richard’s coy laughter and increasingly overt flirtation, the man has intentions of making the evening more pleasant yet.

The bookshop is now only half a block away. Through lowered lashes Aziraphale watches his own feet pace out steps on the pavement as he tries to decide if he will invite Richard inside. Upstairs.

They reach the shop stoop just as the Bentley pulls into an empty space across the street.

Crowley’s demonic presence rolls through Aziraphale’s senses like heavy smoke. He doesn’t hear what Richard is saying, but suddenly the man leans forward; dazed, Aziraphale can do nothing at first but let himself be kissed.

He realises Crowley can see them, and it’s only divine willpower that keeps him from flinching from Richard’s eager, oblivious mouth.

But then he remembers a hand _(not his!)_ tangled in Crowley’s red hair, a mouth _(not his!)_ meeting Crowley’s in a crowded club.

And so, as he comes back to himself, he returns the human’s kiss with interest. He tilts his cheek into the hand that cups his face; opens his lips to Richard’s tongue. He _wants_ Crowley to see them. He wants Crowley to see that even a plain angel who has given up all pretense at fashion and style can be desirable.

That even a plain angel can desire.

It’s only when Richard’s body begins to press him into the door that Aziraphale pulls away. He can tell Richard is disappointed, and feels a pang of shame for making a pawn of this kind young man who likes books, whose recent friendly companionship has dulled the edge of Aziraphale’s loneliness.

They sort themselves out as best they can with awkward laughs and polite excuses. Before he leaves, Richard reaches out to Aziraphale a final time; he tenses, but Richard only straightens the bowtie that has gone askew during their exertions.

With a half-smile, Richard stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks quickly away. Aziraphale sends a blessing with him. He doesn’t think he’ll see the man in the bookshop again.

But all his senses are straining toward the black car and its occupant.

Aziraphale doesn’t know how Crowley will respond to the vignette that has just played out before him. He doesn’t know how he himself should respond, how he should _be_ – conciliatory? Defiant? _There’s no time after all,_ he thinks wildly, _no time to prepare a face to meet the faces that I meet_ – and he hears the Bentley’s door open.

He turns his head to meet hot yellow eyes that burn behind dark lenses, and his cracked heart finally breaks. Crowley is in a long coat, in _white_ – Aziraphale has _never_ seen him in that colour in their long years together – and fur and leather fly like wings behind him as he seethes across the street. His ever-tight trousers ride indecently low on his sharp hips, and there is no shirt at all to hide his smooth skin. Half-wound up from kissing Richard – _from showing Crowley how he is kissing Richard_ \- he feels something low in himself wind even tighter.

Aziraphale gathers the scattered fragments of himself, tries frantically to bind them back into some semblance of an angelic heart. But the pieces are still shattering as the footsteps on the asphalt draw closer, and the only thing he can think of to keep Crowley from hearing the broken clatter in his chest is to put as much cold distance between them as possible.

“Crowley,” he says, and the chilly sharpness in his voice is like slivers of ice, like thousands of frozen porcelain shards.

\-----

Crowley looks in the mirror, trying to coolly appraise his outfit. He’s decided to stop by the bookshop to see if he can get back to stable ground with Aziraphale. He’s tired of their sharp words and how they cling to him, cutting his heart into shreds whenever he thinks of them.

He’s dressed in white for once. A bit of a nod to Aziraphale’s wings, if he’s honest. The coat has a wide fur lapel and the leather has warmed to his body temperature. It feels like a second skin. He likes the sensation so much he’s forgone a shirt. It’s the fashion now anyway, showing a lot of skin.

The coat falls beautifully in the front, framing his narrow hips and showing off how low his trousers ride. They are black, of course, and tight as sin. He’s no slouch in the temptation department. He knows how to make himself look good. He’s trying to ignore the fact that he craves the angel’s eyes on him. He wants to rattle him, rock him out of his angelic rut. Make him want.

\---

As he slings the Bentley through traffic he relaxes a bit. There are few things he holds precious, and the car is like an extension of himself. He doesn’t drive her so much as wield her. She’s his armour against the world; when he’s driving he has at least the illusion of control.

He parks in his traditional place in front of the shop. He feels like making an entrance. He knows he’ll make a striking figure, the white coat shining as the light fades from the day.

As he frets about his coat and how it’s falling away from his hips, he notices that Aziraphale is just outside the shop door with someone. The man leans in as Crowley watches. His hand cups Aziraphale’s cheek and he leans in to kiss him. It’s not brief. As they part, they both laugh softly and say their goodbyes. The man straightens Aziraphale’s bowtie before he turns to leave. And it’s then that Aziraphale catches sight of Crowley.

Crowley still sits in the Bentley on his side of the street. The sight of a strange man touching the angel makes him furious. His head is buzzing and angry. He has to remind himself to breathe. As the man leaves, Crowley exits the car and stalks across the street towards Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, dismissive and cold. He moves to open the door as Crowley finally speaks.

“Who the fuck was that? I didn’t know you were _fraternising_ with anyone currently.” he spits.

Aziraphale’s face reddens. “I’m not sure why you're taking that tone. I’ve seen you in clubs, Crowley; you’re not subtle, my dear.” He’s all condescending bastard, no sign of the soft angel now. “I don’t see why you care who I spend my time with when you aren’t here.”

Crowley takes a few steps towards the angel. He can hear his heart beating too loud in his ears. He wants to scream until his throat is raw, rage about speed limits and going too fast; he _wants._ That’s the entire problem.

Crowley steps closer again and growls, “I’m not the one who put on the brakes, angel. That was you. I thought it was because you wanted to wait.” He falters and looks away. “Evidently it was just me you didn’t want.”

At that he tries to turn away, to keep from seeing the anger and sadness on the angel’s face. Aziraphale grabs his arm, unveiling the strength at his core.

*~*~*~*

Aziraphale is _angry,_ his icy fury an equal match for Crowley’s hot rage. Crowley of the temptations, of the _mixing business and pleasure, as it turns out,_ has the _gall_ to be upset about Aziraphale’s choice of company for the evening.

He’d kept those tickets for two weeks, hoping against hope that Crowley would work himself out of whatever snit he was in, that he would come back down to Aziraphale’s speed. And now, when Aziraphale has finally abandoned hope and reached instead for the comfort of human connection – a comfort for which Crowley was hardly lacking these days, he might add – tonight of all nights was when Crowley had deigned to drop in and begin hurling accusations.

 _“I’m_ not the one who put on the brakes, angel. That was you,” Crowley snarls, and Aziraphale is about to rejoin the fray when Crowley falters.

“I thought it was because you wanted to wait,” he says miserably. He looks away, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Evidently it was just me you didn’t want.”

He whips around to leave, the leather coat whirling behind him, and Aziraphale is rocked by the sudden certainty that if he lets Crowley walk away believing that he isn’t wanted, that he isn’t the most important thing Aziraphale has _ever_ wanted, they will never mend what now stretches thin and torn between them.

Aziraphale lunges to grasp Crowley’s arm. Crowley goes still, and Aziraphale almost releases him. He is stronger than Crowley by far - but he would never use that strength to force Crowley to anything, nor to imprison him, not for all the grace in Heaven. So he waits for a few clattering heartbeats, and after a moment Crowley relaxes minutely in his grip.

Aziraphale’s relief is quickly overwhelmed by anxious anger. “This conversation is _not_ over, Crowley,” he hisses. “But we’re not having it here on the stoop.” He’s already seen curtains fluttering at the nearest windows in the flats overhead.

He opens the bookshop door with a twitch of his fingers and pulls Crowley inside.

The door slams closed behind them.


	2. Ink and Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well. You’re not the only one who can – how did you put it? Mix business and pleasure, as it turns out.” In the weeks since Crowley had all but shouted it through the noise and smoke of the club, the phrase has skipped through Aziraphale’s memory like a record on repeat.
> 
> Five years after his gift of holy water, Crowley and Aziraphale are struggling to hold onto their tenuous connection. Another gift sows the seeds of an argument that will have lasting consequences.

**_1972_ **

Aziraphale drags him into the bookshop with a hand like iron around his arm. As the door slams behind him, Crowley's heady with a combination of anger and lust. He will always be a sucker for the angel’s infrequent shows of strength, but he tries not to let himself be distracted. 

“What the fuck, Aziraphale? I can’t believe you!” Crowley pulls himself out of the angel’s grip and leans back so he’s as far away as he can get without miracling himself back outside. “If you didn’t want ME, fine, but you could have told me. I mean, don’t I deserve that at least? Who even is that guy? You were practically ramming your tongue down his throat.” 

Crowley’s never been so glad for his sunglasses as he is now. He can’t help the tears that well up in his eyes, and the knot in his throat is making his voice crack. Aziraphale thankfully doesn’t seem to notice his distress, too preoccupied by his anger with Crowley’s big fucking mouth. 

“As if you haven’t done far more than kissing plenty of humans, Crowley. What do you care if I have friends or lovers?” Aziraphale says tartly. 

Crowley just stares for a moment. Since Crowley had first laid eyes on him, Aziraphale has been the most tantalizing being he’s ever encountered. The idea of the angel taking human lovers has been something Crowley has spent centuries keeping far away from his conscious thoughts.

“Oh, so that’s what you do with friends? Well, we’ve been friends what? Six thousand years or so? We’ve never kissed like _that_ `.” 

Crowley knows to a moment all the times they’ve touched over the years, let alone kissed. There were times when kisses were the only appropriate greeting but it’s been centuries since the angel’s lips have touched him.

“All right, angel,” he says, voice silky with rage. “If we’re going to continue this conversation, tell me this: who the fuck was that?” He’s slowly advancing, and Aziraphale retreats into the doorway. 

“Richard.” Aziraphale says matter of factly, as if it’s Crowley’s fault he’d never met him. 

“Richard.” Crowley spits. “And how exactly did you come to meet?”

“In one of the many ways one comes to meet humans.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow coolly. “Stretched out on a table in a club, perhaps.”

Crowley’s mouth twists as the guilt and anger spill through him at the memory. He turns away and begins to pace angrily. “That was work, and you know it.”

“Well. You’re not the only one who can mix business and pleasure, as it turns out.” Aziraphale says icily. 

“Business!’ Crowley flings himself back around to face the angel. “So you met him here, then. What, is he a bookseller? Are you trying to sleep your way to a new first edition?” The venom of his anger fuels his sarcasm.

“He was actually asking _me_ for a first edition, if you must know.” Aziraphale replies haughtily.

Crowley stops dead, disbelieving. “A customer, then.”

“Crowley—”

“I rate lower than a _fucking customer_.” The tide has turned, and it’s Crowley’s anger rushing forward now; it’s sucking him completely under. He can barely see for the furious tears swimming in his eyes. 

“A customer, Aziraphale.” His voice is clipped. “The ones you’re always trying to get rid of. But you wanted this one. Snogged him right there in the street.” 

Crowley rips off his sunglasses, not caring about the tears any more. He slams Aziraphale with the full force of his anger. 

“Your _human_. Was he _safe?_ Did he go slow enough for you?” He can’t keep the venom out. It leaches into his words as the full effect of his jealousy comes to the fore. 

Aziraphale matches him glare for glare. “Yes, he did. He doesn’t snort cocaine in discotheques, as far as I know. He comes to the shop once or twice a week. He talks to me about what I’m reading.” He arches his brow. “He comes with me to musicals.”

Crowley rears back; it’s like Aziraphale has punched him in the stomach. 

“You took _him._ To the musical.”

“The ticket was for you, Crowley!” Aziraphale cries. “I waited for you to come for it. I waited _weeks—_ ”

Crowley can hardly speak. The words that come out are dangerously quiet. 

“Waiting. _You’ve_ been waiting for _me?_ ” Crowley pauses and pulls the scraps of himself together. He tries to rein in his pulsing anger; the internal cry of _“why him and not me?”_ The hurt is radiating from him; he knows the angel has to feel it too. 

His voice goes even quieter. “I’ve been waiting for _centuries,_ angel. Millennia, even. I’ve gone slow for you – fuck, I don’t know how to go any slower.” 

He can’t tell if it’s fury or anguish when his voice breaks. “How much longer do _I_ have to wait?”

*~*~*~*

“All right, angel,” Crowley says, outraged. “If we’re going to continue this conversation, tell me this: Who the fuck was that?”

“Richard.” He owes Crowley no names, but the demon seems disinclined to let the question go. Aziraphale’s grateful he blessed the man before he’d left. He knows Crowley never hurts humans, but he’s never seen Crowley in a rage like this, and he knows Crowley could be capable of making Richard’s life a long-lasting series of little miseries.

“ _Richard_. And how exactly did you come to meet this human?”

“In one of the many ways one comes to meet humans.” _A giggle and squirm as Crowley’s face pressed against a flat stomach; a messy kiss, after._ Aziraphale’s fury surges again. “Stretched out on a table in a club, perhaps.”

Crowley whirls away from him and begins to pace furiously. “That was work, and you know it.”

“Well. You’re not the only one who can – how did you put it? Mix business and pleasure, as it turns out.” In the weeks since Crowley had all but shouted it through the noise and smoke of the club, the phrase has skipped through Aziraphale’s memory like a record on repeat.

“Business! So you met him here, then. What kind of _business_ is he conducting? Is he a bookseller? Are you trying to sleep your way to a new first edition?” The sarcasm drips.

“He was actually asking _me_ for a first edition, if you must know.”

Aziraphale realises his mistake as the words slip from his lips and Crowley stills.

“A customer, then.” The demon’s voice is flat with disbelief.

“Crowley—”

“I rate lower than a _fucking customer_.” He can sense the desolation in Crowley’s angry words.

“A _customer,_ Aziraphale. The ones you’re always trying to get rid of. But you wanted this one. Snogged him right there in the street.” Crowley rips the sunglasses from his face. His eyes are yellow and slit-pupiled; Aziraphale doesn’t think Crowley knows tears are slipping down his cheeks. His voice is full of venom. “Your _human._ Was he _safe?_ Did he go slow enough for you?”

Aziraphale lifts his chin defiantly. “Yes, he did. _He_ doesn’t snort cocaine in discotheques, as far as I know. He comes to the shop once or twice a week. He talks to me about what I’m reading.”

He gathers up his hurt into a weapon and aims, strikes: “He comes with me to musicals.”

The blow hits home, and Crowley reels back from where he’s cornered Aziraphale in the doorway. “You took _him._ To the musical.”

“The ticket was for you, Crowley!” Aziraphale cries. “I waited for you to come for it. I waited _weeks—_ ”

“Waiting. _You’ve_ been waiting for _me?_ ” The vicious quiet of Crowley’s voice is far worse than their shouting. “I’ve been waiting for _centuries,_ angel. Millennia, even. I’ve gone slow for you – fuck, I don’t know how to go any slower. How much longer do _I_ have to wait?”

Beneath Crowley’s anger Aziraphale hears a thin thread of despair, and the splintered pieces of his heart crumble to dust. The shop is suddenly full of a fraught silence, and into this eye of their storm he takes a step forward.

“Not much longer at all,” he says. “If you insist.”

He sees the heat in Crowley’s yellow eyes change from fury to something else altogether.

And when Crowley reaches out to him, it’s all the insistence Aziraphale needs.

This time it’s _his_ hands tangling in the red hair. This time it’s _him_ pulling Crowley into a kiss. Their teeth clash, but before it can become awkward, he tilts his face and parts his lips and licks into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley makes a desperate noise. And good Lord, good _God_ Aziraphale wants him to make more, wants to make him make more.

But Aziraphale is still angry underneath the rubble of his heartbreak and the shock of this first kiss. Crowley’s mustache rasps hard against his face as the kiss becomes rougher, as Aziraphale adds more bite. His hands tighten in Crowley’s hair. The demon growls into his mouth and pushes Aziraphale until his back is against the bookshop door, crowding against him and ruthlessly sliding a knee between his legs.

He’s painfully hard, he can’t help himself; he grinds into Crowley’s thigh, and he feels Crowley hard against him too, cock straining in the low-slung trousers.

For once Aziraphale doesn’t overthink. He doesn’t think at all. The white fur is soft in his hands when he grips Crowley’s coat and propels him backward. When they hit the table Crowley’s grunt of surprise is all but lost in the crash of books as Aziraphale leans around him and sweeps them to the floor, pens and parchment too, spilling a pot of black ink that pours out across the tabletop.

They break apart, stunned into momentary silence by the sound. They stare wide-eyed at one another as the ink drips onto the rug.

And then they crash back together.

Aziraphale has the easier time of it by far. He has the zipper down instantly, hooking his thumbs through the waistband and pulling Crowley’s trousers down past his hips while Crowley’s still fumbling with the buttons of Aziraphale’s fly. It’s just Crowley underneath, no pants, nothing between his warm skin and Aziraphale’s hands.

His mouth finds Crowley’s. “Christ, Aziraphale,” Crowley groans against his lips.

He grips Crowley’s bare arse and hoists him up on the table. He doesn’t know which of them miracled away the snakeskin shoes, but they’re gone; he yanks Crowley’s trousers off and tosses them aside. And now it’s Crowley who’s stretched on a tabletop, naked but for his coat, laid out for Aziraphale on the white fur and leather.

As he slides his hands up Crowley’s thighs he’s struck by the enormity of what they are about to do. He stares at the beautiful demon, his fingers clenching bruisingly tight at Crowley’s hip as a sense of danger begins to creep into his awareness – danger, and the fear that they will be found out, and the realisation that this is not something they should be doing in anger. This is not something they should be doing.

But Crowley growls, “Angel, _fuck._ Put your fingers in me. _Now._ ”

And he does.

Fingers miracled slick and dripping, he pushes in one. Then another. Quicker than he should, but Crowley urges him on, gasping and writhing on the table as Aziraphale works him open. He presses deeper, seeking, and knows he’s found the right spot when Crowley _shouts._ He presses in again. Again.

He ignores Crowley’s whine of protest when he slides his fingers out. His fly is still half-buttoned, but he undoes the buttons quickly, expertly, and pulls out his cock. Another miracle and his hand is slippery-wet again. He fights to keep from coming as he strokes himself slick.

Crowley watches him, red hair wild, yellow eyes bright with lust, and Aziraphale sees the sharp tips of fangs between his parted lips. He suddenly remembers who they are. What they are. Fear spikes through him—

_(this is not something they should be doing)_

—but long legs wrap around his waist.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley rasps, low and urgent, and Aziraphale sheathes himself inside Crowley’s body in one hard thrust.

Crowley _hisses._ Immediately Aziraphale stills. They pant together for a moment, bodies adjusting, before Aziraphale begins again to move. Crowley is perfect, hot and tight and wet around him. He tries to move carefully, mindful of his strength, not wanting to hurt. But with thighs flexing Crowley goads him to a brutal pace.

His anger simmered down at last to desperation, Aziraphale loses himself in the pounding rhythm of it. He won’t last long. His orgasm is already building, winding tight between his legs.

“Crowley,” he gasps. “I’m so close, I’m—"

“ _Yes,_ angel.”

He grips Crowley’s hips and pulls until the demon is flush against him. When he comes, it’s deep inside Crowley, hot pulses that leave him sobbing.

He sags forward, taking a few moments to gather himself. Crowley shifts restlessly beneath him. Still weak, Aziraphale slides himself up Crowley’s body, belly rubbing along Crowley’s still-stiff cock, and reaches to pull his face in for a kiss. Their lips meet and Crowley moans into his mouth. His back arches, his whole body tenses, and Aziraphale realises he is coming.

_\-----_

__

“Not much longer at all,” he says. “If you insist.”

__

The kiss is hard and desperate. Crowley is furious, and he captures the angel’s lips as if he wants to devour him. It can’t be called anything but possessive, the way he surges forward and pulls Aziraphale to him. It’s all tongue and teeth and oh _god_ the angel tastes so fucking good. Like clear water and sweet wine and just the edge of bitter gall. Even angry as he is, he can’t believe this is actually happening.

__

When the angel’s hands grip his hair just this side of painful, he growls and shoves him against the bookshop door, devouring his mouth and grinding into him with a moan of pure desperation. He slots his thigh against Aziraphale’s hard length. He can’t believe they are rutting against one another; his wildest fantasies hadn’t taken an angry angel into account. 

__

He’s shocked when Aziraphale grabs onto his lapels and propels them both towards the table. He moves Crowley as if he was nothing, and damn if Crowley doesn’t get impossibly harder at the manhandling. He can feel the swell of their desire overtaking him and he gives himself over to the tide. 

__

When Aziraphale sweeps the desk clear it’s like a clarion bell and they both stop. Panting Crowley stares and sees the angel as never before: wracked with lust and anger. A wave of it washes over them and they crash back together. 

__

Their hands tangle together as Aziraphale unzips his trousers to free his cock. He has trouble with the buttons on the angel’s fly. Damn fussy clothes between him and the cock he can feel straining towards him. Aziraphale gets his waistband and hauls his trousers down to his knees. 

__

“Christ, Aziraphale,” Crowley moans into the angel’s mouth. 

__

He only has a moment before Aziraphale hauls him bodily onto the table, heedless of the mess. Crowley spares a tiny thought for his beautiful coat but is quickly distracted by the angel’s hands sliding up his legs to spread his thighs.

__

Aziraphale’s grip tightens on him hard enough to bruise, and he feels the angel’s hesitation as he stares at Crowley laid out on the desk. Crowley’s chest is heaving, his cock straining. He can’t take it anymore, the fully clothed angel taking him apart. He can’t stop himself from growling: 

__

“Angel, _fuck._ Put your fingers in me. _Now._ ”

__

He feels slick fingers in the cleft of his arse. He moans as Aziraphale slips a finger inside him, then quickly a second; the burn and stretch feel right somehow. Aziraphale crooks his fingers as he slides them in, and Crowley shouts when the angel’s found just the right spot to caress. 

__

Aziraphale removes his fingers to pulls out his own cock, and Crowley almost comes from watching him slick himself. But suddenly fear flashes in Aziraphale’s eyes.

__

Desperate to reassure him, Crowley wraps his legs around the angel’s waist. “Aziraphale,” Crowley moans his name, wrecked and messy.

__

The angel positions himself and slides inside in one long thrust. 

__

It’s just on the knife edge of pain but he wants him, God how he wants him. Aziraphale goes still when he hears Crowley hiss but Crowley pulls him in with his legs, heedless of the pain, knowing that it will burn out to a pulsing of pleasure. 

__

It’s everything he has ever wanted from Aziraphale, seeing him overcome with desire, but behind the haze of lust his heart aches. He never wanted it to happen like this.

__

He feels the angel trying to be careful, treating him like he could break. Crowley wants to be broken, split apart by the only being who has ever treated him like something precious. He can feel the angel losing control, his thrusts becoming erratic, he can taste his desperation in the air.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale grits out. “I’m so close, I’m—”

 _“Yes,_ angel.” He still can’t quite believe this is happening: Aziraphale’s cock inside him, filling him up, making him feel complete. His cock sliding against the softness of the angel’s waistcoat is tantalizing, just enough sensation to keep him on edge. He’s spiraling on the cusp of something he has never felt before.

Aziraphale pulls him flush against his body as he comes, hot pulses inside him, lighting him up. Crowley is taut, barely held together, every nerve ending suspended. The angel kisses him and it’s like a match to lighter fluid down his spine. He comes so hard he can’t see anything but white. 

__

His body slumps back. They lean together, breathing hard. Regret and love stain the air, making him choke to realize that this is his every fantasy fulfilled but not the way he wanted. 

__

The anger has left him empty and the orgasm has fried every other neuron he has. All he can think is that he wanted to show Aziraphale all the softness and love he has hidden for centuries. Not the harshness of this, this _fuck._

__

God, Aziraphale fucked him. How did _that_ happen?

__

Aziraphale pulls out and vanishes the mess. “Crowley?” he asks, looking at him, concerned. 

__

He can’t answer at first, and now the angel’s truly agitated. “I thought you - was that not. Not what you wanted?” Aziraphale stammers.

__

Crowley looks Aziraphale in the eye. He needs to be certain of his next words. 

__

“Angel...that was…” He decides to be brave. “That wasn’t how I wanted our first time to be.” He cups Aziraphale’s face, tries hard to show all the love he has in his eyes. 

__

*~*~*~*

__

When Crowley calms, he’s boneless and breathless underneath Aziraphale. They lay together for what could have been seconds or minutes or hours. Their breathing slows, and at last, Aziraphale slips out of him. He feels the slide of his own spend as he pulls away and tucks himself back in his trousers. 

__

In a sudden crushing panic he vanishes it all: the come that is spilling out of Crowley, and the come spread between the velvet of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and the silk of Crowley’s skin.

__

_What have they done? What will happen to them now?_

__

But Crowley makes a soft noise – almost a choking sound – and Aziraphale’s anxiety takes an entirely different tack.

__

“Crowley?” he asks uncertainly.

__

When Crowley looks up, Aziraphale is horrified to see his yellow eyes full of tears. 

__

“I thought you—was that not. Not what you wanted?”

__

“Angel...that was…” Crowley says carefully. “That wasn’t how I wanted our first time to be.” He cradles Aziraphale’s face gently in his hand.

__

A sick wave roils through Aziraphale. _“Crowley_. Did I—”

__

“No, angel,” Crowley cuts him off. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want. Not the way you’re thinking, at least.” He smiles crookedly. “Couldn’t you tell?”

__

He pushes himself upright and slides off the table. He’s vulnerable, standing in just the white coat, a troubled look on his face.

__

“But when all’s said and done, it was a fuck, wasn’t it? An angry fuck, at that. Or at least it started off that way. And… I’ve been thinking about our first time for years. For just about all the years that ever were, angel. And this isn’t what I thought it would be like at all.”

__

He takes Aziraphale’s hand. “Let me show you,” he says softly. “Let me show you what I wanted.”

__

Crowley leads him through the bookshop.

__

The comedown from their fight and their _fuck_ has drained the last of Aziraphale’s energy; he almost can’t comprehend the magnitude of Crowley’s words. The thought that Crowley has truly wanted him for so very long stuns him to his core, and in a daze he can do nothing but follow.

__

In front of the sofa Crowley begins to unbutton him. His coat goes first, then his waistcoat. As the clothes slip from his body, he comes undone yet again – but this time it’s gentler, far more tender, with none of their earlier ferocity. The last of his fear falls away from him under Crowley’s hands, and he lets it go, lost in the sea change washing over them both.

__

Aziraphale undoes the bowtie himself when Crowley fumbles with the knot. He tugs it from his collar as Crowley works his way down the buttons on his shirt.

__

Their corporations aren’t human, and so Aziraphale’s cock is already filling again as Crowley opens his fly. Crowley is hard again too, jutting red and flushed from the bush of ginger hair between his legs. Aziraphale pushes his trousers and pants to the floor. He toes off his brogues, bends to take off his socks. He lets it all lay wherever it falls. 

__

Crowley shrugs the white leather coat from his shoulders. He catches the collar in his hand—and they’re both shocked from the mood by the black ink stain. It arcs almost like a wing over the entire back of the coat.

__

“Crowley—” Aziraphale reaches for the coat, but Crowley tosses it aside.

__

“Leave it.”

__

And Crowley lays him down.

__

The tapestry cloth of the sofa is gently rough against his back, and Crowley’s skin is smooth against his chest, and Crowley’s mouth is warm and wet as he sucks a bruise into Aziraphale’s throat. The bristles of the mustache are a delicious abrasion. Aziraphale closes his eyes and lets himself feel the movement of lips and tongue down his body. His hands run along Crowley’s sides, through his hair. 

__

He cries out when Crowley swallows him down to the root.

__

The rhythm of it is just slow enough for Aziraphale to feel every lap and curl of Crowley’s clever tongue, every stroke and press of Crowley’s clever fingers—but fast enough to bring him almost to the tipping point, quicker than he’d wanted. But Crowley knows. He eases his pace and leaves Aziraphale panting desperately.

__

Twice more he runs Aziraphale right up to the edge. The third time, Aziraphale curls his fingers into Crowley’s hair and _pulls._ With a wordless noise, Crowley slides his cock from his mouth. His lips are wet and shining. “Angel?” 

__

“Not yet, Crowley. Not like this.”

__

“Tell me, then.” He strokes Aziraphale’s cock, teasing him with light touches. “Tell me how to make you feel good.”

__

Aziraphale tries to pull Crowley up, position him where he wants, but the demon resists. “Angel. Say what you want.” He cups and gently tugs Aziraphale’s balls. “I want to hear you say what you want. And I want to hear you say that you want it. Say you want…”

__

He falters. Aziraphale props himself up on an elbow and reaches out. He tips up Crowley’s chin to look into his eyes, and finishes the words.

__

“You, Crowley. I want you.” 

__

Crowley goes still. So very still. When he begins to move again there are tear tracks down his face. His voice is rough, but his touch is gentle.

__

“Tell me how you want me, angel.” 

__

Aziraphale is dizzy with relief at his declaration, spoken aloud at last. He has so much more he wants to say, so many ways to tell Crowley how he wants him, but he can’t think with Crowley’s hands working between his legs. The only desire he can manage to express is the most immediate.

__

“In—inside me,” he stammers. “I want you inside me.” 

__

Crowley takes a deep breath in, exhales hot on Aziraphale’s skin. And then he kisses Aziraphale’s inner thigh; he bites just hard enough to bruise. His hand slips lower, and a miraculously slick finger brushes against Aziraphale’s hole. 

__

The push inside is exquisite. Aziraphale rolls his hips with the crook of knuckle, the stretch of his rim; Crowley adds a second finger, and Aziraphale groans with the pleasure of it, flexing to fuck himself open against Crowley’s hand.

__

\-----

__

Feeling the heat of the angel is overwhelming. Crowley has to pause to take a breath. Seeing the angel laid out and moaning from his hands is more than he ever thought he could have. His hands are shaking but that’s nothing compared to his brain which went offline the second Aziraphale said “I want you inside me.” As if the demon had ever wanted to be anywhere else. 

__

Aziraphale is moving, restlessly trying to pull him closer. Crowley slides his hand forward adding another finger, caressing him and moving faster in the slick heat of him. 

__

“Crowley” Aziraphale sighs, “Slower, love. I want to feel you.” He moans as Crowley surges up to kiss him. 

__

“I can go as slow as you need, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

__

He doesn’t miss the way the angel’s eyes lock intently on to his, the blue turned stormy grey, looking at Crowley’s face as if he can translate what he’s seeing into words: the hieroglyphs of devotion written into every facet of Crowley’s skin. It’s more intimate than even what they are doing now, his fingers sunk deep inside the angel’s body. It’s like being lit up in every cell of his being, the holy gaze of his angel. _His_ angel. It burns through him and makes him want to suspend this moment of Aziraphale’s pleasure. 

__

He’s slowly dragging his fingers inside the angel, looking intently at the angel’s leaking cock and noting every movement that has Aziraphale clenching down and groaning his name. 

__

“Crowley.” It comes out as a breathy whine. “Crowley, please.” His voice is desperate and Crowley licks a stripe up his length and then swallows him down. Aziraphale makes an aborted thrust into the heat of Crowley’s mouth and Crowley moans and pulls off. 

__

“Angel, angel, I need you.” 

__

He’s nuzzling up Aziraphale’s belly, the softness intoxicating. He can feel the angel rutting against him, slick and hot. When he’s finally face to face with him again Aziraphale pulls him in close and kisses him. Crowley has a flash of worry about his mustache, it’s wet with slick and spit, but the angel claims his mouth as if it was an orletan, savoring every part like a rare, expensive delicacy. 

__

They moan together and Aziraphale looks at him with those stormy eyes and says, “Fuck me.” 

__

It punches the breath out of the demon’s chest to hear him say it so boldly. He can’t even form words as he lines himself up to push himself into the heat of Aziraphale’s body. He moves slowly so Aziraphale has time to adjust. As he glides into the silken heat his eyes roll back. He’s never felt this much pleasure, never realized the phrase ‘becoming one with someone” feels like it has an actual meaning. 

__

Once he’s flush up against the angel, Aziraphale wraps his legs around him and pulls impossibly deeper. They sit there for just a moment until Aziraphale says, with an angelic command underlying his word, “Move.” And oh God, he’s helpless to resist. 

__

He pulls out shallowly and thrusts in, watching in awe as the angel lifts his hips to meet him, thrusting down on his length. He’s lost in the bliss of watching his cock disappear inside. He’s brought back to reality by Aziraphale’s legs pulling him, _hard,_ deeper into himself. He gasps and then begins to move in earnest, pulling out and letting Aziraphale use his strength to pull Crowley back in, letting the angel use him for his pleasure, knowing that his own is so overwhelming he can barely think coherent thoughts. 

__

Crowley leans down for a messy kiss and Aziraphale instantly has hands in his hair, dragging his head back to kiss and nip down his throat. There will be bite marks, Crowley is sure of it. He can feel Aziraphale’s cock trapped between them, sliding through their mingled sweat. Crowley reaches between them to grasp it, rewarded with a high keen of want. 

__

“Crowley, please.”

__

Crowley pants and drives inside him, setting a deliberate pace. He has Aziraphale gasping and incoherent, begging for release. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, knowing that _he_ did this. _He_ is the one bringing the angel so much pleasure he can’t speak. 

__

In the blink of an eye he can feel the heat pooling at the base of his spine, the urge to move faster and faster taking his breath away. He groans out Aziraphale’s name. 

__

“Yes Crowley, yes, my love.” Aziraphale has lost all pretense and veneer of propriety. His eyes are wild and he is fucking into Crowley’s hand in time with the demon’s thrusts. 

__

“Angel, angel, angel.” It’s the only word left in Crowley’s vocabulary. He tips over the edge, flung into the depths of space, to the heat of his beloved stars bursting behind his eyes. 

__

He tightens his hold on Aziraphale’s cock and the erratic strokes finally bring the angel to release. Aziraphale almost glows with it, so bright and warm that it feels like the comfort of home. Crowley is floating on a cloud of pleasure, and relaxes his hand. He can feel himself softening and sliding out of Aziraphale. It’s a profound loss; he almost grieves as it’s happening. Nothing could be better than lying together in post-coital bliss, drifting as only these human corporations can. 

__

Crowley’s mustache drags as he presses kisses on Aziraphale’s belly. He wants this to last forever. He craves this closeness, this partnership. This union. 

__

*~*~*~*

They lay together in the aftermath. The bookshop sofa is not quite long enough for the both of them; now that Aziraphale has come back to himself, he realises his shoulders are crushed against the cushions, and Crowley’s legs are hanging half off. He pulls and tugs and rearranges until Crowley is resting against his chest, their legs intertwined, Crowley’s head pillowed on his shoulder and his hand threading through Aziraphale’s curls.

He could have stayed there for much longer. For forever, he thinks. But now that their lover’s cries have been shouted into the world, he knows there are more things he needs to say.

Perhaps he hadn’t been able to understand, before – or perhaps it was that he hadn’t been able to let himself understand. Why had it taken this dramatic, traumatic conflict for him to finally see just what they are to each other? But he can see it now.

For Aziraphale has knelt before the Almighty, has sung in Her choirs and fought in Her armies and shed his brethren’s blood in Her name, and yet tonight it is Crowley who has shown him how to worship.

Yes, he can see it now, although he still can’t quite believe it. Even with his lips swollen from Crowley’s kisses, with Crowley atop him drowsing in the wake of their lovemaking, he’s still astonished to realise the demon’s love – and his desire – match Aziraphale’s own. The knowledge is almost painful to bear, but he wouldn’t let it go, even if he could.

Aziraphale can’t begin to imagine how they will move forward from here, but he hopes – he knows – that they can, at last, begin moving forward together.

He opens his mouth to speak—

And suddenly there is a rustle of paper on his desk.

The soft noise rekindles the worry that had been soothed by Crowley’s ministrations. There is only one entity who sends him messages this way.

Aziraphale maneuvers out from beneath Crowley, ignoring the demon’s mutter of protest; naked, he steps to the desk. On top of the stacks of books and papers is a crisp, clean sheet of expensive stationery, neatly folded, sealed with purple wax.

He bites his lip as he cracks it open. The message is brief and cheery, written in a neat but hasty hand.

_How was Jesus Christ Superstar? Can’t be a patch on The Sound of Music, but curious to hear how it turned out! –G_

Cold fear cuts through the warmth of the afterglow. Aside from Richard, of course, he’d told no one but Crowley about his plans to see the musical.

“Angel. What’s wrong?”

In a panic Aziraphale whirls to see Crowley propped up on an elbow, watching him with concern. “Crowley. You have to go. Now.”

“No, I don’t.” And suddenly Crowley is there, plucking the paper from his grasp. He frowns as he reads it. “What’s so bad about this that I have to leave? Other than the _Sound of Music_ reference.”

Aziraphale ignores the attempt at levity. “Gabriel knows, Crowley. He knows about the musical, but I didn’t tell him, he’s going to know about - about us, that we…” He trails off as he struggles to articulate what’s happened between them tonight.

“Angel.” Crowley drops the note to gather Aziraphale into his arms. “If Gabriel's seen us, we’d know about it by now.”

Aziraphale is shaking. But when Crowley tries to draw him back to the sofa, he pulls sharply away.

“We’ve already crossed the line, Aziraphale.” Crowley says, frowning. In the tightening of his face, Aziraphale can see the clouds gathering, and he is suddenly, furiously desperate to put his feelings to words.

“Yes, Crowley!” he shouts. “We have crossed a line. And now I know, and I can’t ever not know again.”

He wraps his arms around himself miserably. “And I don’t want to not know,” he says in a small voice.

“What do you know?” Crowley’s frustration is fading into confusion. “Or not know? Or want to not know? I don’t understand.”

“Now I know...” Aziraphale starts. Takes a deep breath. “Now I know how much I love you. And I know what we have to lose. I know exactly what I’d be losing if I lost you.”

He lifts his face to meet Crowley’s golden eyes. “So this can’t happen again.”

It’s a jolt, like a too-fast change in speed; like slamming on brakes.

“Angel—” Crowley begins.

“I won’t force you to leave, Crowley. But if you stay… if Gabriel finds us out…” He can’t follow the thought through. He finds himself wringing his hands, fingers clenching and twisting.

\-----

Crowley reaches for him, gentling his fretful hands. “Angel, it’s OK.” He can see the panic setting in and it makes his heart ache. He moves his hands up to Aziraphale’s forearms, gripping him softly. He murmurs soothing syllables as he slowly pulls Aziraphale closer. It takes a bit of time to reel him in, but eventually Crowley has the angel’s head on his shoulder.

They hold each other, swaying gently, their breaths evening out, heartbeats slowing until Crowley swears they’re beating in sync. He tries to keep the thoughts crowding his mind at bay. He’s horrified at how reckless and selfish he’s been. The idea of them being caught and punished... He knows how cruel Heaven can be. How could he have put Aziraphale in this position? It makes him shudder.

Aziraphale feels it and tries to form a question, but Crowley pulls him in closer and shushes him, kissing his temple. He tries to radiate calm and bank down self-loathing at his utter recklessness. Crowley knows this can never happen again. He hates himself for putting them both in such danger.

Crowley pulls the ragged edges of himself together and finally says, “Alright, Angel?” He gets a small hum, what seems to be an agreeable noise.

Crowley rubs his back in small circles, cherishing this moment, memorizing the way Aziraphale’s skin feels against his fingertips. It’s something he knows in his heart will never be repeated. One hand finds its way to the angel’s soft curls. He always knew they would feel like eiderdown, and the confirmation is as comforting as it is agonizing. The smell of them both together, ink and feathers, smoke and lightning, is ephemeral he knows. It’s yet another jagged piece to hold in his heart.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. “Angel we’re OK, really. I think if that gobshite Gabriel had seen anything he’d have sent more than a note, right?” Aziraphale nods against his shoulder. He seems hollowed out, a pale shadow of himself. It panics Crowley more than the actual note.

“I mean, if any of my lot caught us I’d probably get a commendation for corrupting you.” He laughs weakly; too close to the bone, that one. He’d give anything to unspool time and get back to before they were in this mess. But he knows that’s not true. He wouldn’t give this up for anyone.

Aziraphale gives a small laugh at that though, knowing exactly how many commendations Crowley has deserved over the centuries.

“We’ve never had a problem with them before, right? They can’t be bothered checking up. Let’s just take it as it comes. Yeah?” Crowley’s starting to feel a little desperate, and he sighs in relief when Aziraphale squeezes him gently and hums in response.

Crowley pulls back to look at him. “We can just,” he huffs out a breath, “just go back to doing what we always do. Wine, lunch, dinner, musicals.” He’s rewarded with a half-smile from Aziraphale.

Then the angel’s sea-glass eyes cloud back over. “Crowley, my dear.” He brings his hand up to cup the demon’s face. “I’m so sorry.” He looks agonized and Crowley can’t stand it.

__

“No, Angel, don’t be sorry.” he says fiercely. Emotions fly through him: anger, joy, and unbearable sadness. “This,” he chokes on the words, “this is something I never even thought could happen.” he says quietly. 

__

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale leans in to kiss him softly. “My love.” he whispers, sorrow in his eyes. 

__

At that, Crowley can no longer bear to hold in his tears. He leans back in to cling to Aziraphale as tightly as he can. His yearning for this closeness is now tainted with desperation at knowing it can never happen again. 

__

Their hold on each other calms to something less anguished as their resolve strengthens to finally let go.

As their embrace loosens, the demon finally realises that they’re still covered in sweat and come. It’s drying in sticky patches all over them.

Crowley looks Aziraphale in the eye, searching for the dread from before. He looks calmer now. The panic's receded, but the grief and heartache remain.

“Come on, Angel,” he says gently, “let’s get cleaned up.”

Crowley snaps them free of stickiness and then strokes his hand through the angel’s hair, straightening it a bit.

Aziraphale shakes his head, his face clearing. “Of course, just let me—“ He reaches out his hand to heal the marks that his lips and hands have made on the demon’s neck and hips.

“No, Angel.” Crowley stops him with a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek. “I want.” He pauses, shy for the first time tonight. “I want to keep them, just for a while. I like being marked. By you.” He blushes more than a demon ought, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze.

He goes to grab his pants and hands the angel his underwear. They slowly get dressed. Aziraphale’s quiet, but laughs when the demon has to use a miracle to get his trousers back on.

Crowley smiles at Aziraphale fussing with his bow tie, making sure it’s perfectly tied. He furrows his brow and asks, “What happened to the ascot? Did you find out you’re allergic to wearing something from this decade?”

Aziraphale stiffens. “I didn’t think it suited me.” His face is chagrined.

Crowley's surprised by the defensiveness in the angel’s voice. “I kind of liked the ascot myself. Made you look dashing.”

Aziraphale flushes and turns toward the kitchenette.

“Can I get you a drink, my dear?” He sounds nervous, wrong-footed and wary in a way that isn’t usually directed at Crowley.

Crowley hesitates. The atmosphere in the shop is still thick with emotion and he needs to clear his head. He still hasn’t processed his own emotional whiplash, from the earlier anger and jealousy to the love and comfort of being wholly with his angel and now to the confusion of finding whatever path lies ahead. He just needs to lie down for a moment and think through everything.

“I think I need to go. I need - I just need some time.”

“Perhaps lunch next week?” Aziraphale asks anxiously. Crowley looks at the doubt on Aziraphale’s face and is quick to respond.

“Of course, Angel. I’ll always be here when you ask.”

As Crowley puts on his coat the angel sees the stain.

“Oh Crowley, your beautiful coat. At least let me get the ink out.” He strokes the leather on Crowley’s arm.

Crowley shrugs the coat on fully, knowing the inkstain is stark on his back.

“No, Angel. I think...” He pauses, “Some stains shouldn’t come out. They’re part of the memory now. Evidence that we—” His voice breaks. “That this happened. Like the bruises. But this won’t fade.”

Aziraphale slides his hands over the mark. He nods and steps away.

Before he’s out of reach, Crowley leans over and tweaks Aziraphale’s bowtie, just as the human had, setting it askew possessively with a lift of his eyebrow. He gives the angel a quick smile and turns to go. He feels himself itching to turn back, to comfort Aziraphale, but he strides forward out of the shop to the Bentley.

He collapses into the driver’s seat, mind whirling. He doesn’t need to hyperventilate, but now his corporation feels free to react to all the anxiety he feels. He put up a good front for Aziraphale but inside he’s a mess. What if Heaven _has_ seen them? What if _his_ lot has? He eyes the radio with dread. It remains blessedly silent.

He takes deep breaths and forces himself to start the car. He barely sees anything on the drive home: just visions of Aziraphale’s face as he fell apart under Crowley’s hands. He still can’t believe it happened. His arrival at the flat is a jolt.

He heads upstairs, trepidatious again that some communication from Hell is waiting.

When he gets inside the flat it’s mercifully quiet, and smells of plants and earth instead of sulphur and smoke. His shoulders drop in relief. He’s fine. He’s alone. And his angel loves him.

_What a fucking night._

He pulls off his coat and falls onto the couch, sprawled in his usual way. He miracles himself a glass of Talisker and holds it to his chest. Letting out a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding, he takes a sip and lets the warmth soothe his nerves.

Crowley lets his mind settle and his hand wander to the bruise on his hip. He presses in and feels the ghost of Aziraphale holding him down. He glances at the coat on the chair, black ink arced winglike over white leather. He leans his head back and tries to let go of his disgust with himself.

He’s still furious for the precarious position he’s put them in. He could have just walked away from the scene with the human at the bookshop, but selfishness and greed and lust combined to tempt him into this.

Though he can hold this to himself: he knows his angel, his angel loves him, wants him, but he can never have him again. Never kiss down his throat, never leave bruising marks on his plush thighs. Never feel him shiver as Crowley swallows him down, never feel the softness of his hair running through his fingers.

He stares at the dark stain on his coat: the reminder of their fuck, their love, their loss. Crowley realises that his cheeks are wet. His silent sobs lodge a pain in his chest, like a spear through the heart of him. He wants to sleep for 100 years to see if it will recede.

It never does.

This night and these sensations will fuel his dreams for forty-eight years, and he’ll never breathe a word.

*~*~*~*

__

As Crowley walks away from him, the last thing Aziraphale sees is the jagged black ink stain spilling down the back of the white leather coat.

__

The bell over the bookshop door jingles. The door slams closed, and with the sound, Aziraphale crumbles. 

__

No matter what he’s said to Crowley just now, he fears the descent of celestial wrath. And now that Crowley’s out of his sight, his immediate impulse is to call him back, to keep him safe and close, so Aziraphale can stand guard against this danger he’s brought down upon them.

__

Because he was the one who set things in motion this time around, with the wretched tickets. He should have kept his peace. Let the years of silence unwind safely between them. But where Aziraphale has become accustomed to the years of silence from Heaven – has become grateful for it, even – the silence from Crowley has been another matter altogether. Even from the beginning he’d felt strangely hollowed by Crowley’s absences, and as the time between their meetings dwindled from centuries to decades to mere years, the hollowness has instead become an ache. And in the last two weeks since Crowley’s rejection in the club, that ache had sharpened viciously to pain. Aziraphale can still feel its echo.

__

But now the pain is of a different sort. 

__

He runs fingers over the marks on his neck, down his chest; he hisses softly with satisfaction as he grinds a thumb through his trousers into the bruise bitten onto his inner thigh. Shifts to feel the luscious soreness deeper inside.

__

_Let me show you what I wanted._

__

Aziraphale has recognized Crowley’s affection for eons, and has returned it as carefully and clandestinely as he could. Had let himself acknowledge Crowley’s love in the burning ruins of a bombed-out church, at the same time he had let himself acknowledge his own. And he’s been reining in his own desire for millennia. But before tonight he had not been aware that Crowley wanted more, too. He thinks with wonder of the need in Crowley’s yellow eyes; he thinks of gentle hands, a warm mouth, soft cries.

__

He thinks of Gabriel’s note fluttering to the desk. 

__

Fear lances through him again. He has grown used to Heaven’s silence, but he has never forgotten that they were always watching. Until, it seems, tonight. He wishes again that he had kept Crowley at his side – not that he could do much of anything against celestial fury, but at least he wouldn’t be left to once again agonise over Crowley’s absence. At least he would know. As he now knows exactly the enormity of what he would be losing if anything were to happen to the demon. 

__

He’s wringing his hands again, and pacing. He attempts to settle himself with the thought that Crowley’s likely right. If Gabriel had been looking during… during… while they were otherwise occupied, they would have known it already. But Aziraphale can’t help but feel that they have been lucky, this time; if Gabriel’s showing interest in Aziraphale’s activities for the first time in decades, who knows what will capture his attention next, or when. They cannot do this again.

__

If he was stronger, he would have told Crowley to stay away. (He recognizes his own inconstancy, the inconsistency in his stay-and-go wishes, even as he succumbs to the anxiety of them.) But he can’t bear the thought of an empty, demon-shaped space in his existence. 

__

_You, Crowley. I want you._

__

He does his best to tuck it away as it rings through him, this dangerous resonant truth. He must trust now that Crowley will come round when he says he will, and they will go back to their meals, their plays, their careful arms-length camaraderie. There will be no more hurt, angry confrontations, he hopes, but there will be no more desperate lovemaking either. There cannot be.

__

Aziraphale catches himself beginning to spiral again; he returns to the back of the shop and pours himself a glass of wine. He needs to be calm. He needs to see what will happen.

__

And what happens is this: Not much at all.

__

There is complete radio silence from Heaven. He waits for the hammer to fall, but there is no follow-up, and he slowly relaxes his guard.

__

He sees Gabriel a few months later, at a casual meeting, and when he cautiously apologises for not having responded to the note he only gets a chuckle. “Oh, yes! I forgot all about that.”

__

A surge of resentful fury courses through Aziraphale. Gabriel forgot. He _forgot._ The note that shattered them so profoundly was just a throwaway whim. For all the rest of his days, this will haunt him: this first moment of realisation that all he will get for hiding Crowley’s love away is an occasional scrap of approval – not even approval, just bare _acknowledgement_ of his existence - tossed thoughtlessly from angels who don’t understand love half so well.

__

As Aziraphale fights to compose himself, Gabriel goes on. "It showed up in an expense report, and I was curious. Are all the human musicals as good as _The Sound of Music_?” 

__

“Well, no.” Aziraphale says. (It’s a truth for him: most musicals are better, in his opinion.) 

__

“Not a surprise.” Gabriel shakes his head mournfully, then fixes Aziraphale with a sharp look. “There were two tickets. Did you actually go with a human?”

__

Aziraphale can only nod.

__

“Nice work. The things you have to do to blend in!” Gabriel laughs.

__

Aziraphale smiles tightly in return. And after this near-discovery from an _expense report,_ of all things, he never again argues when Crowley offers to pick up the tab. 

__

Because Crowley does offer to pick up the tab. One week to the day after Aziraphale had watched him walk out the bookshop door – well after the love-bruises had faded, well after he’d vanished the dark ink stains from the table and rug – Crowley walks back in and invites him to lunch. 

__

He accepts, of course, and it’s a renaissance of their Arrangement. Crowley comes to the shop once or twice a week. He talks to Aziraphale about what the angel is reading. He goes with him to musicals, Sondheim and Gilbert and Sullivan and, yes, Weber. He performs the occasional blessing, and Aziraphale does the occasional temptation. He doesn’t count the temptation he sometimes sees on Crowley’s face when the demon thinks he isn’t looking. 

__

They don’t speak of the night in the bookshop. Not even after they’ve bathed in hellfire and holy water wearing each other’s bodies; not even after the first passionate celebration of their newfound freedom, writhing and shouting in the finest suite at the Ritz; not even after they have begun to twine their lives together at last.

__

But Aziraphale carries the memory with him for nearly half a century, hidden deep within his psyche like a box at the back of a wardrobe. He keeps it carefully, this fragile mended porcelain of his heart; he takes it out at rare moments when his yearning is strong and his thoughts are dark. 

__

He remembers their fucking, and their lovemaking. With guilt, he remembers his fear. And only sometimes does he let himself remember how at the night’s end he’d stood among the scattered books, and dipped his fingers in the ink still dripping from the table, and cried.

__


End file.
